


Cinq

by FeedItToTheFish



Category: God of War, God of War (2018) - Fandom, God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety, Body Dismorphia, Bulimia, Cinq is gonna be the opposite, Drug Use, OSAWA was a “strangers to friends” story, Sexual Assault, Suicide, Trigger warnings:, imposter syndrome, this is gonna be.. dark, withdrawals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeedItToTheFish/pseuds/FeedItToTheFish
Summary: Cinq:Noun.Meaning simply “five”, in classical ballet terminology. Also standing for the five steps of Atreus’ descent into madness.Atreus is a dancer. He lives and breathes ballet and with the endless support of his parents, he knows that his dream of dancing on stage before thousands of people will one day come true. However, when he suddenly scores the titular role in a huge production, the fame that comes with it is more than he can handle and quickly, Atreus loses himself to the world of childhood stardom.





	1. Emboîté

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> This story includes themes that are quite dark, disturbing and potentially triggering.  
> I have made a habit of writing about issues that are very close to me, and hope to portray these as accurately and tastefully as I can. However, I have chosen to represent these quite graphically, so if any of the warnings in the tags are sensitive topics for you, I don't recommend that you read on.
> 
> Cinq is written in the point of view of a minor who in later chapters, doesn't realise that what they are experiencing is indecent assault- just like many don't until years later. These scenes are written to be thought provoking and to expose some unfortunately uncomfortable situations that are very real, and very common. 
> 
> Anyway, I've already said a lot of this in the End Notes but wanted to add something a little more formally, and up the top so that people are aware of what they're reading before they start.
> 
> On to the story!

Emboîté: _Noun._ An emboîté is a type of jeté where the dancer moves and alternates their legs in a bent position, springing from the floor into front attitudes. Translated to “fitted together”, an emboîté is similar to a tightly knit family.

—

The box crumples between curled knuckles and the foiled sheets inside split beneath his grip. Blistered fingertips reach into the cardboard enclosure and in moments the small, white tablets are pressed from their casing, swallowed as quickly as they were withdrawn. A clear, burning liquid from a glass bottle washes them down and the handful is sharp against his throat.

His heart throbs unsteadily, every beat quicker than the last until his entire body is pulsating. His skin begins to warm, vision spotted with unidentifiable colours, and then,

Black.

 

Atreus’ alarm goes off, and he gasps.

For many nights, he has been riddled with nightmares, and the relief that washes over him when he realises that he is safe in his room is immense. He reaches for his vibrating phone, silencing it, and he grins, glad to be awake. He stretches his limbs beneath the covers, his battered toes and ankles cracking satisfyingly. Pulling back his sheets, he slips onto the floor.

His legs are sore, his feet even more so- but his parents tell him that if he wakes up with no pain, then he is not a true dancer. And he lives by this.

He rests on the polished floorboards in a perfect split, and from beneath his bed he pulls out a small pair of beige pointe shoes. He is down to his last set, but he has grown since his previous fitting and is excited to have a range that mold to his feet even more perfectly than the last. Routinely, he prepares his shoes by flexing the soles backwards and forwards, the shanks snapping about a quarter way down. Pleased, Atreus pulls out a small box cutter and moves it along the bottom of each shoe, small shavings peeling from the soles as he applies grip to the previously smooth surface.

Outside, the sun has not yet risen. Early mornings are customary in the Laufeyson household, and Atreus knows no different; he is usually awake before the birds begin to sing.

He rinses himself with cold water, and shoes in hand and a smile on his face, he performs a series of _grand jetés_ down the hall towards the kitchen. Mid leap, a large pair of hands grip him around his middle and suddenly he is lifted onto the broad shoulder of his part time personal trainer, and full time father.

“Muscles?”

“Sore.” Atreus confirms.

“Good,” He beams, placing his son on the kitchen table with a pat on the back, and pulls a tube of Deep Heat from his tracksuit pocket. Atreus begins to apply the cream to his legs immediately, nuzzling into his father’s side as a silent thank you. Father’s tank top is damp and clings to his muscular body, having already completed an intense workout at the gym below their apartment complex. Atreus pulls a face at the unexpected wetness. 

In the lounge room, arms softly extended and her leg stretched out in the air behind her in a graceful _arabesque_ is Faye; world renowned ballet dancer and Atreus’ mother.

“Are you well rested?” She sings over her shoulder.

“I had another nightmare,” Atreus grabs a banana and begins slicing pieces into the bowl of porridge that had been left for him. _Eat, sleep, dance, repeat,_ Atreus thinks fondly to himself, his lips pulling upwards into a reassuring smile. His mother had said these words once jokingly, but they had stuck with him, and he repeats them daily. “But I’m rested well enough to dance!“

“That’s my boy,” Faye says, a mingling of concern and comfort in her voice. She rises onto the tips of her toes. “Kratos, a lift, if you will.” 

Cheeks filled with oats and fruit, Atreus grins as the personal trainer thrusts the ballerina into the air, holding her above his head by her hips with ease. He rotates steadily as she strikes a pose, her pleated skirt swishing around his shaved head. 

Atreus’ mother is his greatest inspiration and he works every waking moment to one day be like her. Without her encouragement, he wouldn’t have embraced his passion for the performing arts. Father isn’t a dancer at all, but he wholeheartedly supports his superstars in their aerobic endeavours, and can often be found trailing behind them with their dance bags as they frolic and leap between destinations.

Atreus knows how lucky he is to have such wonderful and loving parents, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

 

Mirrors line the walls, and sanded barres line the mirrors. The hardwood floor is so exceptionally clean and shiny, that Atreus can almost see his reflection in it. 

Freya’s studio is large, yet he is the only student here. Atreus has always had private lessons, and he appreciates his one-on-one time with the best dance instructor in the business. The entertainment industry is brutal and he knows that with his special training, he will have an edge over other young performers. There is not a day that passes where he is not appreciative of this privilege, and he looks forward to doing his best in every class. 

Knees pointed up, he lowers himself onto a dense, foam roller. Hands behind his head, he stretches his back across it, closing his eyes as his muscles begin to relax. Atreus has been dancing since before he can remember; he lives and breathes the art. Thanks to his parents, he understands the vast importance of rolling out your instrument before use, and he makes sure to stretch thoroughly before every lesson.

Adjusting himself onto his stomach, he works his tightened quadriceps into the roller, listening in on the conversation taking place across the room as he does so.

“Do you think he is ready?” Father’s voice is uncertain. Atreus’ eyebrows twitch at this. He tries not to stare, but he can see the trio through the mirror and their hunched over bodies spell out what their hushed tones do not.

“I have no doubt. Your son has a passion I have never seen before in a student. He works hard and he is a prodigy because of it; he’s been ready for years.”

“That is not what I meant. I am aware of my son’s talent, but he is young. A role this large could cause him worlds of stress- he is still a child.”

“Kratos,” Faye drags out her husband’s name, annoyed to be having this conversation again. “You were aware from day one that he wasn’t going to have a regular childhood. He already dances seven days a week. He’s already homeschooled! His life revolves around dance, always has and always will. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime, and he will resent you if he misses out.”

Kratos cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. He glances quickly across the room and sighs.

“One audition. That’s it.”

Atreus’ ears prick up at the word and he doesn’t realise how big the smile on his face is until he catches his reflection beaming back at him.

 

Training that week is extra gruelling, and Atreus spends every waking hour in the studio working on his turns, his leaps and squeezing in a few extra vocal classes where necessary. He is making some last minute adjustments to his routine when his parents sneak in, hideous looking fruit smoothies in hand. It must be the fiftieth time he has gone through his chosen piece this evening, and it comes as easily to him as breathing. His back is straight, his is chin lifted and arms are soft. The music ends and he wheezes humorously, hands on his knees. His parents cheer from the corner of the room and Freya gives her signature slow-clap.

“Feedback?” He pants. Atreus had perfected his solo hours ago, but he knows he can do better- there must be something he can improve. His shoes are almost in pieces by now and he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Your face,” Freya says, she cups Atreus’s cheek and he sighs knowingly. “Your body is your instrument, your face is your voice. You have mastered the art of keeping a beautiful, relaxed expression whilst performing strenuous movement, and that takes a lot of talent and discipline. Perfect for ballet. But this is a musical theatre audition, and they will be looking for animation over poise.”

Atreus nods, slowly at first, but then vigorously when he realises that this is an easy fix. He gives his teacher two enthusiastic thumbs up. He thanks her for working so tirelessly with him and springs across the room into the arms of his mother and father. 

He is ready for a cold smoothie and a hot bath and although he is exhausted, he is proud of himself. He is ready.

 

There is a fly colliding clumsily into the wall above Atreus’ bed as he wakes for the third time that night, pyjamas sticking uncomfortably to his skin. His mind racing a mile a minute and his stomach doing pirouettes, he sits up, dizzy and disoriented. He slides out of bed and placing one foot delicately in front of the other, he tiptoes down the hall.

The entrance to the master bedroom is slightly ajar, and he slips through the crack without touching the door nor the frame. The soft glow from Mother’s digital alarm clock offers little guidance, but Atreus knows the layout of his parents’ room like the back of his hand and he pads the short distance to the foot of their bed.

The familiar heat of their bodies brings Atreus comfort during restless nights, and he settles easily between them. Mother snores softly. Father stirs, and lifts a heavy arm onto his son.

“Nightmare?” His voice is gruff and tired, but it is gentle. His eyes remain closed as he grips his son by the hips, pulling him in, their foreheads brushing together. Atreus wiggles even closer, closing the gap between their bodies. Chest to chest, he feels Father’s heartbeat, slow and soothing. He feels his breath, warm and even on his cheeks. Atreus does his best to mimic the pace.

“Yeah,” His voice wobbles and his hands ball into fists, still a little unsettled. “They’re taking over me. I haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks.”

Kratos sits up and begins to rummage through the dresser beside the bed. Atreus sits up too, crossing his legs and leaning sleepily onto his father’s back. From the second draw down, Father pulls out a small cardboard box of sleeping pills, and passes it to his son.

“Half a tablet with water. Now, to bed.” He ruffles his son’s hair and places a quick kiss on his forehead before flopping down onto his pillow, and Atreus scurries back into his room, box in hand.

 

Morning breaks and the energy exuding from Atreus is enough to power a small village. He does cartwheels down the hall, bounces in his seat for the whole drive and does a perfect set of heightened barrel rolls across the lobby the Royal Midgardian Theatre.

Faye rests a hand on her vibrating son’s knee as they wait to be called, and leans her cheek into the top of his head. 

“You’re a little coffee bean this morning, aren’t you? It looks like you finally got a good night’s sleep!” She laughs. 

From the other side of Atreus, Kratos cracks his knuckles and slings an arm around his son, his thumb brushing gently against Faye’s shoulder.

“Yes,” The man chuckles knowlingly, smiling at his two most cherished people. “It is good to see.”

Atreus kisses his mother promptly on the cheek, and adjusts himself onto his knees, leaning up to kiss his father as well.

“Do you guys have any last tips before I go in?” His body is taut with anticipation, and his jaw is tight.

Eat. Sleep. Dance. Repeat.

He isn’t nervous, he tells himself. He is just excited.

Mother lifts Atreus onto her lap and pulls his battered pointe shoes from her bag, handing them to him. He begins to squish the tips between his palms, softening them, before fixing them to his feet.

“Dance with your heart, and your feet will follow.” Mother says, and her words bring tranquility as he ties the ivory ribbon into bows around his ankles.

His name is called, and with a last reassuring hug from his parents, he stands.

Eat. Sleep. Dance. Repeat.

He knows he can do this. He knows that this is the moment that his years of hard work are about to pay off. Dance is his life, and he’s about to prove it.

Eat. Sleep. Dance. Repeat.

Already, the door is so much larger, and as he nears it his heart pounds and the words inside his head begin to blur.

EatSleepDanceRepeat.

He turns the handle.

_Eatsleepdancerepeat._

He steps into the room. The lights are dim, and in the centre, a desk with two burly men seated behind it.

“Atreus, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

Atreus wipes his palms on his tights and steps towards the men that he recognises as the Magni, highly acclaimed casting director and his brother Modi, equally reputable choreographer; he has looked up to them for years. He places his CV and headshots in front of them on the table. 

“It’s lovely to meet you both, too.” He smiles as sweetly as he can, flashing his pearly whites in the way that he has rehearsed daily. His eyes dart around the otherwise empty room. Calm and collected on the outside, his insides scatter. His chest feels like an enclosure of birds, nerves fluttering within him like winged creatures, trying to scratch their way out with their pointed beaks and sharpened talons. “Where are the other kids?"

Magni clears his throat. 

“Your teacher Freya has spoken very highly of you, and she’s not easy to impress. The director of the show has requested that we see you seperately; He wanted us to confirm her praise.” 

Modi’s fingers thread together on top of Atreus’ photo and he eyeballs a small checklist on the table. He is silent for a few moments before his lips part. “Before we ask you to begin- some questions. How long have you been dancing?”

“Since I was born. There is not a day in my life where I remember not dancing.” Atreus shuffles in his place and the men begin to jot down his answers.

“How is your English accent?”

“It’s fine,”

“How many turns can you perform at once?”

“Thirty, and twenty en pointe.” 

“En pointe? How long have you been en pointe for?”

“Since I was ten. I’m twelve now, so two years.” Atreus’ tongue presses firmly to the roof of his mouth. The men’s expressions are hard to read and there is no possible way for him to know if he is giving the correct answers. 

“Do you tap?”

“I’m good at tap, but I have more experience with ballet.” 

Modi leans back in his seat, hands still firmly atop the photograph.

“You can begin when you’re ready.”

 

Atreus takes a deep breath. 

_Eat. Sleep. Dance. Repeat._

The music starts...

 

...And he wears it on his skin. In this moment, the little birds within him settle and he does not care whether or not his audition is successful, he cares only for the electricity he feels as the music consumes him. He feels every beat, every note through his feet, allowing it to travel up his bones and out through his lips and eyes, and with his entire body, Atreus smiles.


	2. Échappé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Échappé: _Verb_. To échappé, start in a closed position, usually fifth, and then slide both feet out into second or fourth position. Meaning “slipping movement”, échappé is similar to how a young, impressionable dancer might slip into an eating disorder, triggering a trail of self destructive behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Refrences to body dysmorphic thoughts in this chapter**  
> **Vague descriptions of bulimic tendencies in this chapter**

It is hours before Atreus is released, his parents waiting in the lobby, surccumed to suspense. He is showered with kisses by his mother when he finally peaks through, and congratulated with a crushing embrace by his father. Atreus splutters and embraces back, and answers their looks of anticipation with a shrug.

“I think they liked me, I’m not sure.” He peeps, and crosses one foot in front of the other in a nervous _plié_. The uncertainty in his voice bounces off the tiles beneath his silk clad feet, and up the great, marble pillars to the choir of angels so delicately carved into the ceiling.

“You were in there a long time, what did they ask you to do?” Faye probes gently as they exit the theatre, Atreus leisurely swinging from his parents’ arms. He lifts his rear and kicks his feet up especially high, beige shoes against the azure above him.

“Well, I did my piece and used my face like Freya told me. Then Modi taught me a couple of routines from the show and they took some pictures of me. I dunno... They didn’t say a lot so it’s hard for me to know how I did.”

“But you tried your best?” Kratos asks, his son’s hand tight in his own.

 _Eat, sleep, dance, repeat_ , Atreus thinks, and he can say with certainty that he had danced his heart out. He nods.

“Then that is all that matters.”

 

It is weeks before Atreus has heard anything. He is especially jumpy for the first few days, leaping for his phone every time it makes a sound, heart rate consistently high. He is sure he has been carrying his stomach in his mouth and regularly has to prompt himself into taking deeper breaths to prevent hyperventilating. After a fortnight he stops continuously checking his emails. After a month he has put his phone back on silent in defeat.

His early morning classes with Freya continue, and since his audition he feels like she is working him harder than ever. Blistered feet, swollen ankles and aching legs won’t stop him though, and every day he proves himself a dedicated dancer.

After a particularly strenuous session, Atreus unwinds in his lounge room, feet in a tub of ice. On his lap is his lunch; two toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and a small carton of milk. On the coffee table in front of him, the radio sings in his father’s language, Father bellowing along to the unfamiliar words from the kitchen behind him.

Atreus smiles privately at his dad’s enthusiasm. Blowing steam from his toastie, he takes a bite and chews eagerly, relieved to be refueling after such an active morning. The container below him is steady as he wiggles his toes amongst the ice, and the chill in his legs is auspicious. He has learnt to welcome the cold, but the shivers that travel up his spine are still unpleasant, familiar or otherwise, and his elbows dig into his sides in subconscious response.

Father is doing the dishes when his subpar singing is interrupted by a knock at the door, and he gestures for his son to duck down below the top of the couch. Atreus follows his direction promptly, and he can feel the cool air from the bucket wafting against his cheeks as he leans forward and out of view. Mother isn’t due back from rehearsal on her show yet, and no one else has access to their unit without buzzing from the foyer first. Atreus isn’t concerned, however; although mellowed in his middle age, Kratos is a source of power and rage, and any hostile would instantly regret their encounter with him. Atreus likes to pretend that Father is his personal security guard sometimes, and is always glad to have him close.

There is another knock, louder this time, and Father wipes his hands on the bottom of his sweat shirt before answering.

“Huh. I thought you’d be bigger,” the voice from the doorway purrs, and Atreus is almost certain that he recognises it. “But you’re definitely the one. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“What do you want?” Father tests, blocking the entrance with his obstacle of a body. Atreus gives into his curiosity and pulls his feet from the ice, dabbing them with a towel as he peaks over the top of the couch. The first thing he notices about the stranger is his tattoos; his lightly sculpted body is covered with them. He wears a loose pair of printed harem pants and nothing else, his bare skin competing with ink. His sandy hair is shaved at the sides and pulled into a small bun at the top of his head, and his beard is embellished with small, glass beads.

“Kratos... the big and bald,” the stranger grunts as he looks the man before him up and down. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Best personal trainer Greece has to offer, retired Olympic athlete and husband to the most celebrated ballerina of the century. I am looking for your son.” He almost groans his words. His sentences slur and Atreus cannot tell when one ends and the next begins, but his tone is definite. Propping himself up on his elbows, the little dancer leans in for a closer look at their visitor’s face. Realisation overcomes him.

“Baldur!” He exclames, leaping from the couch and attaching himself to his father’s side like a magnet.

Kratos presses his fingers into his son’s shoulder as he looks down at him, bemused.

“You know this man?” He mumbles.

“Yeah!” Atreus hugs his father’s leg. “He’s the best director Broadway has ever seen, he’s the Midus of the industry- every show he touches turns to gold. Mother has told me all about him, he’s a superstar!” He rises onto the tips of his toes and looks up ardently at their visitor. “But why are you here, looking for me?”

Baldur sways a little before kneeling down to meet the boy’s bright, sparkling eyes. There are small, red sores on his arms, Atreus notices.

Baldur pushes Kratos’ hand off the small dancer’s shoulder and replaces it with his own.

“Atreus, you are my Billy Elliot.”

He freezes, his chest swells, and for a moment Atreus forgets how to breathe. “I’m, you mean,” he trips over his words, his tongue turning to knots in his mouth.

“Congratulations, you got the role.”

Atreus is almost levitating as he begins to _soubresaut_ , springing multiple times from the floor and landing weightlessly, as if he wasn’t landing at all. “Me! You picked me!” He bounces once more before twirling, and then he pauses. “But why? I’m good, I understand that, but there are others who are just as talented.”

“Kid,” Baldur stands and scratches the back of his leg with his toes. “You could be the most technically advanced dancer in the world and it would mean nothing without passion. And you are oozing with it. You have a gift for storytelling, and that can’t be taught.” Baldur wipes his nose again and smirks. “Check your emails.” A hand on the doorframe, he nods at the boy, and then at Kratos. Satisfied, he staggers back into the hall where came from. Kratos closes the door. Atreus squeals.

“He’s so cool! I can’t believe he just visited us! I can’t belie-” his chirping is cut off by a strong pair of arms, lifting him from the floor and pressing him tightly against a rock hard chest. Atreus gasps; being hugged by his father is like being pressed between two closing walls, but he adjusts to the touch and nuzzles his nose under a dark beard. Father hums into his ear.

“Words cannot describe how proud I am of you, Atreus. Congratulations.”

 

Atreus squeezes his legs against his father’s sides, arms tight around his shoulders they pass through the rotating restaurant door.

“I see her!” He yips. He slides down from his father’s back, his small pair of dress shoes not making a sound as he hits the floor. Winding through the labyrinth of candle-lit tables, Atreus makes a beeline for his mother and flings himself into her arms when he reaches her.

“Oh Atreus, I’m so proud!! I knew they would pick you, you’re perfect!” Faye has let her hair down from her usual bun allowing frizzy, red strands to tickle Atreus’ cheeks as she kisses his forehead. He pecks her nose and she lifts him into his own chair next to her, Father taking a seat across from them.

“He gets all of his talent from you,” Kratos complements, a thumb brushing over his wife’s knuckles.

“And his tantrums from you.” Atreus giggles innocently at his mother’s comment, and Father chuckles lowly, not denying it.

Wine glasses clink and trolleys stacked high with extravagant dishes navigate the dining room, butlers in tuxedos and the most amazing smells that had ever met Atreus’ nose following closely behind. The fire crackling a short distance from their table warms his back, and the meal settling deep inside him warms his belly as he sits on his chair cross legged, a cheek resting contently on the table. His parents have shuffled closer together and lean into one another, Father’s lips planting soft kisses under Mother’s ear. They whisper as their son rests, pride within their lowered voices.

Atreus’ eyebrows draw together and he bites the inside of his top lip as he watches his parents. He covers his eyes with a clammy palm. Faye runs a hand gingerly down his neck, tucking the tag of his shirt back beneath his collar.

“Is something troubling you, small one?”

He turns his face into the crook of his arm, and his mumbles are incoherent. Father grips him softly by the shoulders, lifting him up in his seat, and Atreus frowns.

“I’m not going to see much of you anymore, am I?” He holds back a sniff.

His parents look to each other, the corner’s of Faye’s lips turning down and Kratos’ nose wrinkling.

“I know how busy Mum gets on her shows. It’s going to be the same for me, isn’t it?”

“Son,” Kratos takes a napkin from the table and wipes Atreus’ dampened cheeks. “You will see so much of us that you will want to be rid of us.”

 

His parents seem confident in Father’s statement, and Atreus can only hope that his words are true as he cradles himself beneath his covers. The cocoon of pillows and soft blankets around him bring warmth and comfort, yet Atreus hosts a disturbing chill in his chest, and he trembles. He lies awake, heart pounding, the ceiling above him an unfortunate distraction from his hard earned rest, and his mind wonders to the small cardboard box beneath his bed.

 —

 “Eat, sleep, dance, repeat,” Atreus whispers to himself as he sits outside the theatre office, his parents on either side of him. His foot taps rapidly and his mother places a hand on his jittering leg. He checks the time on his phone- only a minute has passed since he had last looked but he feels like he has been sitting here for an eternity.

“Oh, don’t be so fidgety, sweetheart- the role is already yours.” Faye says through a smile. She takes her son’s hands in her own and tugs him to his feet, the small boy groaning as she does so. “Let’s burn up some of that nervous energy, hm?”

Arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked into his pits, Atreus pouts. “I’m not nervous.” He hunches slightly and his eyes find comfort in avoiding his mother’s. Faye flicks a look at her husband, who is already a step ahead and picking a song from their son’s playlist.

The first few bars play and before he knows it, Atreus is on his toes. His arms move almost involuntarily, stretching out in front of him, hands cupped towards each other. As one leg lifts parallel to his arms, he crouches with the other, then propels himself upward into a torpedo of _a la seconde_ turns. With each rotation, he returns his eyes to his beaming father, growing smaller in his seat as Atreus spins further and further down the hall.

With a final spin, each leg a straight line from his hips to his toes, he begins to leap back towards his parents- any nerves he had carried into the theatre with him, shaken off with each bound. Perfect or not, he decides that he is where he belongs.

The office door bursts open and suddenly the nearing image of his parents is replaced by Baldur’s tattooed chest, and Atreus finds his nose pressed up against the director in an awkward collusion. He blushes so intensely that he suspects his toes might be blushing too.

“Aren’t you keen?” Baldur asks rhetorically, gripping the small boy by his shoulders and giving him a shake. He turns to Atreus’ parents.

“Kratos, good to see you. Faye, it’s been a while. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your son for a few hours while I show him around.” He mutters.

“By all means,” Faye grins. “He insisted that he come in to get to know the place before he was scheduled to start. I know you’ve already begun with the ensemble so we appreciate you taking the time to do this with him today.”

“Of course, anything for the Laufeyson prodigy. You ready for your tour shorty?”

Atreus, still pink, nods vigorously, and waves a quick goodbye to his parents before following his director through the lobby.

“Funny,” Baldur says under his breath. Atreus looks at him questioningly as they pass through a staff-only door and up a narrow flight of stairs. “Billy Elliot is a story of a boy whose family doesn’t want him to dance. Whereas all your family want you to do IS to dance. An ironic juxtaposition.” Atreus isn’t sure what is so funny about having supportive parents, but he laughs anyway.

“So,” He says after a short silence. “Modi taught me a few dances during my audition. They were great! It looks like it’s gonna be an amazing show and I’m really honoured to be a part of it!” Now it is Baldur’s turn to laugh.

“Aw, you’re cute. But you can getcha nose out of my ass, I already like you.”

“And I like you! Hey, you have ballet roots like me. Why the change to musical theatre?”

Atreus leaps up the last few steps, bouncing from foot to foot as Baldur catches up. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! You’re great at both. Your technique is perfect!! You were the biggest director in Broadway, right? Why come back to Midgard?” Baldur unlocks the door to the control booth and chuckles softly at Atreus’ enthusiasm. He stands at the entrance, letting him poke through the various corners and buttons as questions continue to pour from the young dancer’s endlessly curious mouth.

Three or four exciting (to Atreus) rooms later, the pair find themselves surrounded by feather boas, tiny tutus and close to a thousand bottles of multicoloured sequins. Atreus figures they’ve found the costume department.

In the back corner, knee deep in coils of fabric, a man not much taller than Atreus is fighting a losing battle with a tape measure. Atreus chokes on laughter.

“Sindri?!”

The man’s eyes dart up to meet his own, and his bearded face adopts a smile.

“Atreus! I knew that was you they were talking about!” He shuffles out from his workspace, careful not to knock his current masterpiece. “Congratulations on your first big role!”

Atreus fidgets in his spot, tempted to run to Sindri and give him a big bear hug, but refrains, knowing how peculiar mother’s friend is with physical contact. He shoots the man a smile and two thumbs up instead.

“Oh, I have something for you!” Sindri announces before promptly diving into a wall of boxes, and Baldur taps his foot as they wait enduringly for whatever it is the costume designer is looking for.

And when Atreus sees them, his eyes double in size.

In Sindri’s hands are the most beautiful pair of black, satin pointe shoes that Atreus has ever seen. The ebony colouring is exciting and different, and Atreus can already tell by looking at them that they’re a perfect fit.

“Custom made by yours truly!”

After deciding on his ribbons, a quick try-on and a big thank you, Atreus lovingly stores his gift away into his bag, and as quickly as they had arrived, they are moving on. Baldur stops them a few metres down the hall at a black painted door.

“You know this room already, so we won’t be long in here.” They step through into a large studio with wooden floors and black walls, and Atreus immediately recognises it as the room he had auditioned in. It looks so different with all of the curtains drawn, the space bathed in natural light. There are many cast members warming up, and various coloured rollers and yoga mats scattered across the floor. The room is alive, and appears much more inviting than it had during his previous visit.

Baldur picks up a script from his desk and thrusts it into Atreus’ hands.

“We’re starting read-through tomorrow, so it might be worth you having a quick look at your lines when you get home.”

Blue eyes flicker past the director and across the room, his gaze landing on a boy about his age with porcelain skin and hair almost as pale. Baldur’s words are white noise as Atreus turns his attention to the way the child moves so masterfully across the dance floor, ribs prominent below his shirt as he spins. Atreus crosses his arms, fingers subconsciously grazing at his own sides.

“You got all that, kiddo?”

There is a man with the boy, a muscular arm out to support him as he leaps. _Modi,_ Atreus realises. _How come he gets to train with Modi?_

“Kid,” Fingers click centimetres from his nose and Atreus blinks, his attention recaptured. He lowers his eyebrows, but then smiles brightly. Behind Baldur, Modi ruffles the albino boy’s hair.

“Yep! Got it.”

“Right,” Baldur dismisses, scratching at a scab on his arm. “Well I’ve saved the best til last.”

Atreus glances over his shoulder as the door closes behind him, but follows eagerly to their next location.

Around some corners, through some doors and amongst copious amounts of scrap wood, Atreus recognises what must be the wings of the stage, and behind a small, grumbling man, the stage itself.

The corners of his mouth flicker upwards in disbelief at the sight, but he can’t quite look past the peculiar man before him.

“Hey there, my name-“

“Gah. I don’t care who you are or who you ain’t. All I care for right now is gettin’ this work done and I ain’t letting some snot-nosed kid hinder me.” The man throws down his screwdriver and kicks his tool box in frustration, but his rumpled features relax when his gaze shifts from the mess he’s made to the buddying ballerina in front of him. “Say, you must be Faye’s boy!”

“Great, _now_ you care who he is,” the increasingly bored director drones. “ _Faye’s boy_ is busy, so don’t talk to him.” He cups the boy at the base of his neck and shoves him lightly away from the clutter and in a few more paces, Atreus finds himself in the centre of the stage. “That was Brok, Tre. He’s been building sets for the RMT since before you were born, and your mother’s been dancing on them for just as long. And this...”

He hold his arms out and leans back where he stands, Atreus glancing around in awe.

Thick, velvet curtains, shimmering tassels, the masterfully painted ceiling and the many levels of golden embellished stalls almost knock him off his feet, gasping as he fills from top to toe with pride.

“... is her temple. She owns the fuck out of it. It’s yours now, and you’re gonna make it your bitch. The audience will throw flowers at you. When you’re older, chicks will throw lingerie at you. You’re gonna do great things on this stage, and make a lot of people happy with your talent and passion. This is where it starts, kid.”

Atreus feels himself begin to flush again and chin to his chest, he beams. However, as over the moon as he is, Atreus can feel a pinch of something else, deep down, that he doesn’t quite recognise.

“Baldur,” Atreus asks sheepishly as they head back to the office. He kicks his feet against the glossy tiles and ties the front of his T-shirt into a knot. “Who was that boy training with Modi? Is he in the show?”

“Yeah, that’s Jör. That skinny, little kid is a star in the making. He was Oliver Twist last year and the boy in Mary Poppins the year before.”

Atreus grits his teeth. _How come he’s already been in so many shows?_

“This year, Modi has cast him as Billy’s best friend, Michael.”

Baldur slings am arm around his new little pal and scratches at his beard with his free hand. “C’mon. Let’s find your adults.”

_I’m going to have to impress Modi, so he’ll want to put me in more shows, too._

“Actually,” Atreus rubs the back of his head and shuffles out of Baldur’s loose embrace. “I think I left my script in the rehearsal room. Tell ‘em I’ll be back in a minute!”

_Or I’m gonna die trying._

 

The sound of his phone buzzing on his bedside table brings him back to consciousness, and he wipes away the sleep from his eyes. Slipping onto the floor besides his bed, Atreus swells with pride as he reaches underneath for his brand new pointe shoes. The ebony silk feels so right in his hands and he begins flexing each sole, like he has done to countless pairs before. He rummages through his little tool basket and retrieves a small, spiked roller, and begins to work it down the base of his newest prized possessions.

The water during his shower feels like shards of ice on his back, and although the temperature is far from favourable, his groaning muscles thank him. He dries off and reaches for the Deep Heat by the sink, lathering his legs and wrists. He pulls on his usual leggings and baggy T-shirt and across the room, the bathroom scales catch his eye. Reluctantly, he steps on.

“Sleep well enough?” Faye calls over her shoulder, hanging upside down from the couch as Atreus slinks into the kitchen. Mother is always teaching herself new moves and stretches, and it is equal parts inspiring and amusing to see what she comes up with next. Father is doing push-ups on the balcony, the rising sun glistening off his dripping shoulders.

“Yeah,” Atreus says with little heart. At the kitchen table, a bowl of porridge has been left for him and places himself in front of it, a puddle of guilt building in the pit of his stomach. The spoon in his hand seldom makes it to his mouth and he keeps his eyes low.

 

Soon enough they are on their way to the theatre, and as they pull over, the guilt that Atreus feels is replaced by anticipation. Duffle bag in one hand, brand new pointe shoes in the other, he leaps from the back seat and pushes the car door shut with a swing of his foot.

“Love you both have a good day wish me luuccckkkkkk!” He calls out as he bounds up the front stairs, not looking back once. He hears his father excitedly honking the horn as the automatic doors open for him, and his cheeks begin to ache from grinning as he enters.

The lobby dwarfs him, and it is his first time here alone. His chest swells from excitement, and he is bewildered by the grand scale of his new home. Stepping cautiously, he takes in the detail he had missed during his previous visits, having been too nervous to appreciate the artistry woven into each and every inch of the building. His eyes follow the golden vines that coil up the pillars to the hundreds of sculptures reaching down from the ceiling above, and he is breathless when he notices the trail of stained glass skylights amongst them.

Pictured within one coloured mosaic is a man Atreus acknowledges as Julius Caesar, recognisable by golden laurels and the many knives that protruding from his bloodied body. Atreus shivers, but continues on below the many vibrant panes, each seeming to represent a previous production. In front of him are two flights of red-carpeted stairs, leading up to the higher levels of the theatre and between them, a great, glass elevator.

Breaking into a trot, Atreus hops over the box office counter and through the door of the cloakroom, skipping out the other side into a passageway leading under the stage- a shortcut to the rehearsal room that Baldur had showed him during their tour.

Just outside, Atreus tugs on his new shoes. Tucking his heals in and fastening the charcoal ribbon around his ankles, he secures his tools of choice to his feet. He flexes his arches beneath him and lets out a soft gasp- they’re perfect.

He gathers himself, and as he lifts his fist to knock, he notices that his arm is trembling. Taking a sharp breath and a step back, Atreus repeats his mantra before forcing himself to bring his knuckles to the wood.

A few moments pass before he hears something rustling inside the studio, then he hears Modi greet him from beyond the door.

“Come in.”

The man’s voice raises the hair on Atreus’ neck and the boy isn’t sure why, but he hesitates.

 _There’s nothing to be worried about,_ Atreus gulps. _It’s just Modi._

He turns the handle and steps into the room. Inside, Modi is leaning against the wall, typing on his phone. There is a single wooden chair in the centre of the space and the curtains have been shut again, Atreus notices. He paces across the room towards the choreographer, conscious of every squeak and groan the floorboards make beneath him.

“Good morning Modi, thank you for making time in your schedule to see me so last minute.” Modi’s auburn hair is combed back and pulled into a low ponytail, revealing numerous piercings across his ears. He wears a pair of three quarter length tracksuit pants and a pullover hoodie, and doesn’t seem to notice that Atreus has spoken to him as he continues to text. “I know you must be really busy...” Atreus continues, filling the silence. He adjusts his leggings and glances about the room.

“Are you warmed up?” Modi asks, eyes finally lifting from his device, and Atreus’ heart skips a beat.

“Absolutely.”

“This morning I am going to teach you one of the routines I am most proud of. Its complexity will be enough to challenge you, but I don’t think a boy with your kind of talent will struggle with it for long.” Atreus holds back a smile in reaction to what he thinks was a compliment as he is guided to the chair.

Modi lifts the prop by the top corner so that only one of its four legs is in contact with the ground. “You’re going to like this one,” the chair begins to rotate in his hand, turning like a spinning top and Atreus watches it, hypnotised. “It’s mostly ballet, and you’ll be performing a few aerial tricks on a harness too.” Modi nudges Atreus a little closer, and puts the boy’s hand on the chair in place of his own. “Your turn.”

Atreus looks up at the choreographer, and then back to the chair, which falls back onto all four legs almost immediately. His face feels hot and his features scrunch as he quickly lifts the chair again, determined not to disappoint the Thorson brother. Modi tisks above him, and steps a little closer. Atreus can feel a set of hips pressed to his back, the way he had felt them during his audition, and the chair drops once more.

“Like this,” Modi adjusts the smaller hand so that the corner is nestled in the centre of the boy’s palm. He shows Atreus how to nudge it with the ball of his hand in the correct direction, and how to push the wood along with his fingers into complete a rotation. “You know the five basic positions, don’t you?”

Atreus nods, focussed.

“As an exercise, I want you to treat this chair like a barre, but I want you to be spinning it consistently as you move. Can you do that?”

Atreus nods again and adjusts his posture.

“Un,” Modi counts, and begins to pace. “Deux, trois, quatre, cinq,” he reaches over, pressing a hand between Atreus’ shoulder blades, prompting him to straighten his back. “Un, deux, trois, quatre,” Atreus tenses when Modi’s hand slips down to his waist. He wonders if the contact means he’s impressing him. “Cinq,”

Continuing through the steps, sense of achievement wells up inside of him as the chair begins to ease beneath his grip, and Atreus does his best to keep up with the quickening pace of Modi’s counting. Soon enough, the movement becomes second nature to him and he blinks up at his instructor with expecting eyes.

“That’s good Atreus,” Modi purrs. “Next I’ll show you the steps you will perform while the chair is in rotation.”

Making a point to smile big and maintain eye contact, Atreus listens keenly to Modi’s every word. The first few steps are easy enough and he glides through the movement. However, as the dance becomes more technical, maintaining the chair’s consistent speed becomes a struggle, and all he can hope is that Modi hasn’t picked up on his hesitancy.

“Wait, can you please show me how to do that again?” Atreus, asks, frustrated. He isn’t sure if his questions are making him seem unprofessional, but he figures he is going to embarrass himself if he doesn’t just bite the bullet and ask. He can feel a hot breath on his neck as Modi kneels down behind him.

“No, you almost have it.” The instructor takes Atreus’ hip into one hand, steadying him, and the underside of his thigh in the other. Atreus realises how quickly he is breathing as Modi guides his leg into the correct position, hand lingering there. “Hm. That’s better.”

Soon enough, their fellow cast members begin to trickle in and by the time Baldur arrives, Atreus has learnt the entirety of the routine. He gives himself a pat on the back for taking the initiative to get ahead, but tells himself not to get too comfortable with his progress.

“Everyone grab your scripts and a pen. Read-through starts in five.” Baldur announces, leaning heavily on his desk. Atreus fetches his copy- already filled to the brim with notes. He opens to the first page and sits in suspense, bright eyed and ready to get started on his first official day.

—

Training goes quickly, Atreus finds. Baldur is consistently singing him praises, and his private lessons with Modi have always brought success. But Atreus is still unsure if he has put in enough work in by the time each day has come to a close, and can’t ever seem to leave the theatre satisfied.

Weeks of read-throughs and blocking long behind them, Atreus finds himself neck deep in technical rehearsals. However, with dress rehearsals fast approaching, each day is a flurry of nerves and half eaten meals and Atreus is painfully aware of how little time he has left until he must perform before an audience. But he keeps his head high, pointe shoes tied tight and his growing anxiety very much to himself.

He is stumbled across, long after hours, headphones in and unaware of the outside world- entirely engulfed by dance.

“What are you still doing here, Freckles? We’re done for the day.” A figure groans, retrieving his forgotten dance bag from the corner of the room. “Kid?”

It isn’t until his headphones are being lifted that Atreus realises he is not alone.

“Baldur! Hey man, what’s up?”

“You shouldn’t be in here, what are doing?”

A little embarrassed and sensing the annoyance in his manager’s voice, Atreus begins to gather his belongings. “Oh, I uh, I told my parents I’ve been finishing late to get in some extra practise. I like training alone and I don’t get a lot of that at the apartment.” He slips through the door held open for him, his duffel bag heavy at his side. “But I can just wait outside for them.”

They make their way through the passages, Baldur mumbling to himself (Atreus thinks he heard something along the lines of, “If only you practiced your singing as often as your dancing”, but chooses to ignore it), scratching vigorously at the bend of his arm, and Atreus scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

“Nah, I’m not leaving you alone out there,” the director says slowly, and Atreus isn’t completely sure if he’s still talking to himself or not. “Come hang out with me, we’ll go for a walk.” He gives the small boy a playful push and Atreus smiles in agreement, nudging back, and their footsteps fill the otherwise silence as they make their way out of the theatre and along the sidewalk.

“So. What’s your deal, kid?” Baldur asks after a few blocks, observing the way his little friend rehearses his steps, even as they walk. Atreus finishes his pivot and hops to catch up, playfully avoiding the cracks in the footpath.

“Eat, sleep, dance, repeat,” he says simply, and continues his routine.

“Yikes, your parents teach you that?”

Atreus shrugs.

“Uh, kinda?”

The gentle twittering of garden birds and the shuffling of feet on cement is soon replaced by engines revving and the reckless honking of impatient drivers, as the pair approach a traffic induced highway. The sky, orange above them, illuminates the windscreens of the passing vehicles and Atreus shields his eyes from the setting sun. Ahead is a bridge, large, unsettling, and almost military; a mingling of bumpy metal sheeting and graffiti-covered concrete. The front of Atreus’ T-shirt balls up in his hands as they approach it.

“Alright, up.” Baldur bends down at the base of the bridge, threading his fingers together. Grabbing an inky shoulder for support, Atreus questioningly steps up and reaches above him, pulling himself onto the concrete ledge. “Keep going,” groaning, Baldur follows his young star, and soon enough the two of them are seated on a beam high above the roar of the traffic, above the fumes and above the colossal amounts of glass and steal. Up here, it is peaceful.

“This is where I come to escape the stress,” Baldur explains, reaching into his backpack. “I imagine you must be under a lot of it, too.”

“Not really,” Atreus assures, but as the words leave his mouth he is really isn’t sure. He swings his legs, the cars tiny against his feet.

“Your life really is only dance, isn’t it?”

Atreus nods, he knows this much to be true.

“I’m sorry. My parents were a lot like yours, you know. My dad owns the theatre, and my mum owns your dance school. They only ever wanted me to be successful, but didn’t care if that meant the end of my sanity.”

The street lights below them flicker on as the sun lowers behind a mountain, and Baldur begins to shake a tiny bag of green flakes onto a slither of paper. Atreus thinks he can see his apartment from here, somewhere between the theatre and the horizon.

“My parents aren’t like that. I dance because I want to. I was never forced.”

Baldur lights his joint and inhales deeply.

“When you’re older, you’ll understand that you were.”

 

 _Eat, sleep, dance, repeat._ The phrase cycles furiously through Atreus’ consciousness as he stands on his mark behind the set, the ensemble already on-stage performing the opening number. _Eat, sleep, dance, repeat._ He has to remind himself that this is his dream, and that he is more than capable of carrying the show.

He squeezes his eyes tight and breathes through his teeth, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. It’s only a matter of minutes until his first ever appearance before an audience and he is as pale as a ghost. A nervous finger fiddles with the tiny mic in his hair and as much as he tries to focus, Atreus can’t ignore the bouquet of flowers dancing obnoxiously in his peripheral vision.

“They’re from your mum,” Baldur comments, eyeing the small card attached. “Looks like she couldn’t make it after all.”

“Shut up, I’m waiting for my cue.”

Atreus fidgets with the collar of his costume, strangely conscious of the beating in his chest. His palms are damp. Baldur tosses the flowers onto a small table and raises both hands defensively.

“Sorry. Break a leg, kid. You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

 

The curtains close to an eruption of applause, and Atreus doesn’t even wait to have his cables removed before he sprints to his dressing room. On the floor with the door shut behind him, Atreus rocks himself, face hot, red and wet.

“Let me in,” Baldur tries. “Your dad’s waiting.”

“I was awful!” Atreus sobs. His chest heaves rapidly, and every breath is a gasp as he digs his nails into his shoulders in attempt to keep himself still. “I didn’t spin fast enough, I didn’t leap high enough, my accent was was all over the place.” Although he can’t quite pinpoint anything he had done wrong, Atreus’ head continues to bang on the on the wooden surface behind him, consumed by the hundreds of things he could have done better.

“Tre, your accent was fine. Your leaps were fine. The audience gave you a standing ovation! You’re being way too hard on yourself.”

“Yeah, fine! I’m the main character I can’t be just _fine_!” He spits. “I’ve worked so hard, I should’ve been perfect!” He can see Jör in his mind so clearly, leaping as high and as gracefully as a gazelle. He wonders if he weren’t as heavy, if he’d be able to jump like that, too.

There is scuffling outside and the brass handle above him rattles. After some defensive words on Baldur’s behalf, the door forces open and suddenly Atreus finds himself in the arms of his father.

“I’m glad mother missed it,” Atreus cries into a tattooed neck, choked violently by frustration and shame.

 

Faye is already at the restaurant, fresh out of a show of her own. Her expression of excitement and pride turns quickly to confusion when she sees the bundle of mess in her husband’s arm. She parts her lips, ready to express her concern when Kratos quickly begins to shake his head.

“Not now,” He mouths, a silent plead.

Not only emotionally drained, but physically depleted after his first performance, Atreus’ stomach growls relentlessly. Mother and Father have already finished their meals and chat idly about absolutely anything other than dance, stealing worried glances at their miserable son. A shaky hand lifts his fork again and he pushes a small chunk of steak around his plate, only bringing it to his mouth at his stomach’s desperate request. The more he consumes, however, the more nauseated he becomes- his nerves stirring his insides up with every bite. When he is certain that he can no longer keep his food down, he pushes back his plate, and excuses himself from the table.

 

 _Sleep, dance, repeat._  
  
Atreus tells himself.

 _Sleep, dance, repeat._  
  
He’s sure he is as thin as Jör now, yet he doesn’t feel his skills improving. His legs are still heavy, his body is sluggish. He knows that tonight is the night that the critics will be reviewing his performance, and if he were just a tiny bit lighter, he’s sure he could impress them. He sits at the base of the dressing room toilet with his fingers down his throat, knowing full well that he has already brought up the last of his lunch. But it’s worth a try anyway.

“How are the new shoes going?” Sindri asks, a basket of props in his arms as Atreus makes his way to his final call. He’s on his eighth pair now. Dancing from dusk til dawn, they don’t last him long. The boy keeps walking.

“Hey, are you alright?” The tailor adjusts the basket onto his hip, Atreus’ non-characteristic lack of response a cause for concern. He reaches out for the boy’s shoulder, and is startled when his hand is hurriedly shoved away. “Uh. You don’t look well, should you be going on tonight? Do you want me to call someone?” He stammers, the blue of Atreus’ eyes prominent against burst blood vessels.

“I’m okay Sindri,” Atreus promises, cheeks puffy. “Please don’t call anyone.”

He gets through his first song perfectly fine; the lyrics are easy and only basic dance is involved. His accent is clear, his jokes are well timed and his interactions with Jör are authentic. He smiles, he laughs. He wonders if his microphone is picking up the gurgling of his stomach.

The routines become more involved as Billy Elliot begins to embrace his love of dance, and Atreus realises he’s starting to lose his breath. Intermission is fast approaching and his hands are quivering, but he knows he’ll be fine after just a little sit down. He glances into the audience in search of his parents. Their usual seats are empty.

One dance to go; a high energy tap number, and Atreus is determined to end the first act on a high note. He thinks he sees Baldur and Sindri talking in the wings, and gathers his energy as his cue approaches. Billy Elliot’s father refuses to let him attend the audition he had been practicing for, and Atreus lets out a well rehearsed scream. He is alone on stage as the orchestra starts, and Atreus begins to kick and tap his feet; his character releasing his anger the best way he knows how.

The dance involves a lot of jumping, rolling, yelling and swearing, and as Atreus taps madly down the wooden stairs from Billy’s bedroom, his head begins to spin.

The curtains will be closing soon, he thinks, sweat dripping off him as Billy screams profanities at the people rioting in his village.

He knows that the orchestra is still playing- he can see the conductor below the stage. But his hearing has unexpectedly faded and Atreus has to rely purely on his muscle-memory to get him through the act, and hopes to God that he is tapping in time with the music.

 _Less than a minute_ , he counts, as he prepares himself for a quick set of _pirouettes._  He isn’t sure if it’s the bright lights above him, or his great urge to cry, but his eyes are fogging up as he spins, and he soberly realises that he doesn’t know which way the audience is.

He kicks, he taps, and when he screams he isn’t acting anymore.

The floor is hard beneath him when his body goes limp, and he can’t remember if he had completed the piece or not. _Sleep, dance, repeat,_ he whispers as the curtains begin to close.

 

_Sleep, dance, repeat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is way longer than I meant it to be :D;;;
> 
> The middle three were always gonna be the longest, like maybe 4000-5000 words each, but this one is accidentally 7000 words hahahahaha :P
> 
> ANYWAY HI! I had to take a break from writing this for a little while because some of the issues in this fic are close to ones I’ve been dealing with myself recently, and needed to keep my head away from that kind of mind frame for a little while. But all is well and I’m glad to be getting back into it!
> 
> The next chapter is where things start to get messy, so please, keep an eye out for the tags/warnings. If you have any discomfort with any of these themes I do encourage you to keep your distance.
> 
> If you or someone you know are experiencing any sort of eating disorder, or think you maybe be damaging yourself in any way, please seek help from a doctor or therapist. My inbox on tumblr (feedittothefish) is open to anyone who needs to chat, but I’m not a medical professional and urge you to also seek help elsewhere.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so hello!!
> 
> Firstly, thank you so much for tuning in to my second GoW fanfic!
> 
> Secondly, this isn’t gonna be everyone’s cup of tea. I learnt during my time writing Of Scars and Wooden Animals that I write best when writing from the heart. So this fic is gonna cover a few more topics that are really close to me- but this time ones that have happened to myself, rather than someone I know (all except one, that is!).
> 
> I understand some of these things a lot of you have gone through as well, so I’m going to keep it as tasteful as possible, whilst still keeping it realistic. I’ll do my best to put warnings on each chapter when these things occur! But hopefully the tags are a good enough indication to generally stay away from this fic if you’re sensitive to these topics. Also a reminder that my tumblr inbox (I’m feedittothefish over there too!) is open to anyone who needs it. Please also know that there is always help available and you are not alone.
> 
> Thirdly, I’m still gonna be working on part two of OSAWA, but I just need a break from it for a little while. :o Thanks for understanding!
> 
> Anyway let me know what you think!! This one’s gonna be a wild ride haha.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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